Ayscough's cabin servant made a quick tour round the table with the bread barge, and Lewrie took another thick slab. Now that he knew what he was dealing with, he could put a name to it; a boule loaf.
"Would the French fishermen run from a frigate, sir?" he asked.
"Not any longer," Charlton informed him. "No dread of us taking them for spare hands, nor of seizing their boats. Fetch-to within two miles of the shore, and they will most-like swarm you like bumboats in a British harbour. Mind the spirit smuggling, though. Our sailors are not that fond of wine, when they can get rum for free, and most French beers are simply ghastly, but the fishermen will have small flasks of brandy or arrack aboard. Not good brandy, mind," Capt. Charlton said with a wry expression.
"Pearls before swine," Ayscough snickered.
"Though the arrack, a rather fiery equivalent to rum, is desirable," Charlton continued. "Probably stolen from French naval stores."
"No American whisky, I s'pose," Lewrie said with a downcast expression of his own. "Grew rather fond of it in the West Indies, the Kentucky sort, which is aged several years in oak barrels. Bourbon, I think they're beginning t'call it."
"Dear Lord!" Charlton softly exclaimed, rather in awe of anyone who would prefer such a strong drink.
"I do have two five-gallon barricoes aboard, but God only knows how long we'll be on-station here," Lewrie said. "You've never tried it, sirs? Might I decant a gallon each for you to sample?" he teased.
"A quart, perhaps, for me, Lewrie," Ayscough replied, grinning impishly. "For I doubt a Yankee Doodle bourbon can measure up to my Highland Scottish whisky. Usquebaugh, by God…, the 'water of life'!"
"I am set down amid fur-coated barbarians." Charlton pretended to shiver. "Vikings with the palates of Philistines!"
Oh, it was grand to be in company with such fine men, officers he had long before learned to trust and rely upon, Lewrie deemed during their supper. Ayscough, that burly fellow with salt-and-pepper hair, clubbed back into an old-fashioned sailor's long queue, his cheerful weathered face, and piercing grey eyes! Charlton, still the tall, lean, and wiry epitome of the genial and articulate, soft-spoken English gentleman-off his quarterdeck, of course-and possessed of a droll and dry wit. Charlton's mild brown eyes and regular, unremarkable features had many times crinkled in amusement in their private moments. And both of them were sailors' sailors, as experienced and canny as any rough "tarpaulin" man, right down to their toenails.
Away went the last plates and the white wine, and out came their dessert and its accompanying drink; ripe Anjou pears amid crumbled sweet biscuit, drenched in a sweetened brandy, with large blobs of stiffened and whipped cream atop! And with it, a rich, dark Madeira port. "Magnificent!" Lewrie pronounced it.
"Rather succulent, aye" was Capt. Charlton's restrained praise. "Bit off," Ayscough commented, though he was spooning it up like a starved hound. "Haven't laid hands on any, as of yet, but I've heard there is an orange-flavoured brandy of French distillery, and I cannot help but think that the rob of oranges, combined with a fine and aged brandy, would be even better."
"I could ask, once inshore, sir," Lewrie offered, intrigued by the novelty of such a liquour.
"Inshore, aye," Ayscough said as the dishes were removed, the tablecloth was whipped away, leaving only a bowl of nuts and the port. "To business, if I may, gentlemen? Droop, kindly fetch me the charts, now the table's cleared, then leave us be for an hour or so."
"Aye, sir," Ayscough's cabin servant replied.
"We've three actual groupings of small ships standing blockade, the numbers varying due to refits, recalls, and new arrivals, such as your Savage, Lewrie." Ayscough sketched out on the chart, tapping one finger near Rochefort and the Ile d'Oleron. "Charlton here commands an assortment of brigs and cutters in this area, whilst down South, Captain Percy Lockyear keeps watch off Arcachon and its large basin. He has but a twenty-gunned older Sloop of War, Arundel, to support his smaller clutch of ships, suitable to the shoal conditions obtaining there. A nice fellow, is Lockyear. You're sure to like him, do you ever meet.
"And I, 'til your timely arrival, do the best I can keeping an eye on the mouth of the Gironde, that leads to Bordeaux," Ayscough said with a self-disparaging tone. "Very wide entrance to the estuary, and sufficient depth of water rather far up, so Chesterfield can sail most of it, but for several forts sited on the tops of the headlands, which out-gun all of us, both in number of artillery pieces, and their weight of metal. Dammit, though… that's not what I am to do with my ship," Ayscough groused. "I am promised a second sixty-four to join me here, so I may employ two middlin' ships to re-enforce our lighter ships if they run into trouble… even if both of us would still be too slow to really catch anything incoming or outgoing."
"Should the French come out in force, Lewrie," Capt. Charlton said with dry wit, "our brief is to harass if we may, or fall back upon Lord Boxham's line-of-battle ships and alert him, if we cannot."
"Aye," Ayscough added with a guffaw. "Run screaming out to sea, like a pack of hysterical women!"
"Well, perhaps not run, sir," Charlton rejoined with a twinkle. "Nor scream, ' either. It would be more of a purposeful lope, along with loud shouts of hue and cry, or 'tally-ho,' hmm?"
"Oh, o' course, sir!" Ayscough chuckled. "Stout hearts, strong legs, and lusty voices. What I mean t'say, Lewrie, is that I can't exercise overall command of this coast, and have any fun at all, anymore.
"That is why I will place you in command of the river mouth."
"Me?" Lewrie gawped in surprise.
Me? Are you daft? he thought, a tad dizzy at the prospect; wee little me, in command o' me own… squadron? Ye'd have t'be barkin' mad t' turn me loose!
To that very instant, the most he expected to control was his frigate, his crew, and his penchant for strange and nubile quim! To acquire more responsibility than that, he had always supposed that he'd have to attain Ayscough's age, and that would be years in the future, but… well, he was a Post-Captain of More Than Three Years' Seniority, and times were hard. Even if he was less than a year in that rate.
Could he have physically turned his head and gone cross-eyed to look at his pair of gilt-fringed epaulets denoting his rank, he would have, if only to confirm that he was, indeed, the Lewrie that Ayscough was talking about. He almost snickered out loud at how ludicrous such a posting sounded!
"Hear, hear!" Charlton congratulated, taking the port bottle to top Lewrie up for the coming toast. "After all you did with independent action in the Adriatic, I can think of no one more suited to driving the French demented, and stopping the Gironde like a beer keg bung."
"Well, I knew the Navy's short-handed these days, but. Lord!" Lewrie responded. "What do the French have, up in Bordeaux, then?"
"I'll get to that," Ayscough told him, pouring himself a fresh glass, as well. "What you have to work with, first. There are five smaller vessels you will command, Lewrie. First are a pair of new-ish brig-sloops… our old compatriot Hogue's Mischief, of sixteen six-pounders, and Erato, with much the same armament. Then, there are the cutters… Argosy and Penguin mount eight guns, and Banshee, which is a hired merchant brig, and a little larger, mounts ten. Of course, all mount eighteen-pounder carronades in addition to their long pieces. If you think it best, further divide your forces into pairs, or two groups of three, should you deem such necessary. Daily stations, and patrolling areas, will be up to you, but…," Ayscough all but wheexed with amusement, "knowing you, I am certain that your penchant for cunning will harass the French to no end, and I may rest easy at night with you out there with your eyes wide open."